Jess and Meggie and Molly and Mary and heaps more of you have been writing these amazing statements. I believe it started here with Suse. They have intrigued me and I have found myself writing my own in my head for days. Mine became further removed from the original concept as I went along. But it made me cry. Time to put it here…

I am from Strong Women. Land-owning, moko-chinned women. Far-from-home, desperate-for-a-new-beginning women. Women who worked hard, physical work, who created, who birthed and buried. Maori and Pakeha, New Zealand women.

I am from Weetbix and Marmite and Vogel bread. But also Mum and Dad making jam in a steamy kitchen, measuring sugar, cutting plums and peaches. From duck and pheasant, plucked by Nanna, shot by Papa, making his own cartridges on the back verandah; from flounder and crayfish, caught by my uncles, drying and cleaning their nets in the sun. From whitebait, feijoas, plums and mandarins. I am from sun-ripened strawberries growing safely under old fishing nets.

I am from a sandpit, huge and deep – built by Dad, digging with my brother; Mole Holes and tunnels to China, shared baths and sandy feet.

I am from freesias, grape hyacinth and roses. But also bracken, ponga and moss. From damp bush tracks, swinging vines, tuis, fantails and bellbirds. From cold, bare legs and sweaty wool-clad torsos; from home-knitted hats and Swan-dris; from canvas packs and scroggin.

I am from a river, deep and dark. The Waikato. Forboding, menacing, comforting, home.

I am from immigrant Presbyterian straightforwardness, threat, control; softened by years to simplicity, inclusiveness, morality. I am from whakapapa, so that my family includes all things and everyone and is everpresent. I am from karakia, prayer for all things – welcome, recognition, gratitude, farewell.

I am from Christmas indulgences. Ceiling-scraper trees that leave sap on the plaster, wooden crates of soft-drink bottles, present-opening that lasts all afternoon (one at a time so everyone can see). I am from my Papa, roasting assorted fowl all morning, revelling in the luxuriousness of our lives.

I am from Nanna. From crochet and knitting, from sewing needles dangerously parked in the back of the sofa, horse racing on a transistor radio. From bags stuffed full of wool and patterns and magazines. The New Zealand Women’s Weekly.
From Choysa tea, arrowroot biscuits, 20 cents to buy yourself a creamy. I am from you.

I am from barefooted primary school days. Hand stands, four-square, school journals, muddy playing fields, thick Education Department crayons. From kids who smelled funny and boys who played rugby and girls in Grandma-knitted cardigans.
I am from the Anglican Book of Common Prayer and boater hats and school ties and timetables and Latin verbs and Chapel and matron and The Bursar and The Headmistress. I am from naughty boarders, brothers at St Pauls, sneaking hone early.

I am from wet, foggy mornings with the washing machine sloshing and my mother’s red hands.
I am from homemade clothes, Holly Hobbie-embroidered and pin-tucked. I am from Singer sewing machines, forever patient Teacher-Mother with needle and thread, hours spent looking a patterns and fabric in shops, pinking shears, pins in foam-topped plastic boxes.

I am from rides in the wheelbarrow, a Daddy with strong arms; piggyback rides, a Daddy with a strong back. Wrestling on the lounge floor, pinned in The Scissors hold. Laughing, laughing, laughing. I am from my parents cuddling in the car, flirting in the kitchen, dancing in the lounge. I am from kissing and cuddling and love.

Ko Taupiri te maunga
Ko Waikato te awa
Ko Aotearoa te iwi

Taupiri is my mountain
Waikato is my river
New Zealand is my people